


This is How It Is

by gentleau (iwanna_seeyou_undoit)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (kind of), Angst, But he's trying!, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I started writing it thinking I'd do something fluffy and sweet, I though I wouldn't recognise fluff if it slapped me in the face, Insecure Sherlock, John is... a bit not good, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, and all that came out was angst, but i got there in the end, no i promise you there is a, season 4 fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanna_seeyou_undoit/pseuds/gentleau
Summary: Two or three times a fortnight John will let himself into the flat. He’ll put Rosie to bed, in his old room, in the bed that hasn’t been touched in So Long. Sometimes, he will pour himself a drink (never tea. They don’t drink tea together, not any more).





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I promise you this has a happy ending and, believe me, I want them to never be sad ever again in their lives. I just... had to throw some angst in there to pave the way to Happy Ever After (with sex).

John is asleep on the sofa. This is how it is now: Sherlock goes to crime scenes by himself, sometimes he texts John the details and sometimes John replies. Mostly though, mostly Sherlock’s phone buzzes, hours later, with a few brief words - 

_           sorry mate. Rosie’s fussy.  _

_           sorry. Work.  _

_           sorry, the battery died.  _

Sherlock has a string of ‘sorrys’ from John, apologies where there used to be enthusiastic consent. He gets it. This is how it is now: Two or three times a fortnight John will let himself into the flat, spread his daughter’s things about the living room - push aside papers that Before, Sherlock would have yelled at him about ( _...important ...very specific order… dust patterns… _ ). He’ll put Rosie to bed, in his old room, in the bed that hasn’t been touched in So Long. Sometimes, he will pour himself a drink (never tea. They don’t drink tea together, not any more. It shouldn’t hurt, tea is such an arbitrary thing to get upset over, but it makes something deep inside Sherlock ache.  _ Fiercely _ .), sometimes, he just sits in silence, his daughter sleeping above his head, until he falls asleep.

This is how it is now: John falls asleep fully clothed on the sofa. The bags under his eyes show no signs of disappearing, and the position hurts his shoulder, but he persists. Two or three times a fortnight, John falls asleep on the sofa instead of climbing one flight of stairs and joining his daughter in his old bedroom. Sherlock knows this because he always returns, sometimes sore, oftentimes stumped, always exhausted, to discover that John never once took his shoes off. He thinks, given the circumstances, even John could deduce everything he needed to know from that. John, in his sensible, tightly laced shoes, doesn’t plan to Stay.

Shoes that are never removed and tea that is never drunk. These should not be the things that send Sherlock into a tailspin of despair, should not be the cornerstones of a room signposted, in the same hand that labelled 2 DVDs,  **Heartbreak** , but they are.

This is how it is, now. 

He gathers his sorrow (selfish) into a corner of his chest to be dealt with later, when John has left, taking with him the traces of another life, of small, clutching fingers and the soft sound of a baby in sleep from the flat. He takes the blanket from the back of John’s chair (his  _ old _ chair. He must remember) and carefully, so much so he is grateful there are no longer any cameras inside, drapes it over John, settling it  _ just so _ ; no chance of the scratchy edge catching against his chin, no reason John’s rest should be disturbed, nothing to necessitate that angry light in John’s eyes ever being pointed at Sherlock. Ever again. 

It is the hope of a hopeless man - Sherlock will  _ always _ slip up, eventually, no matter how hard he tries - but it is all he has, now.

This is how it is. 

~

_ ‘You look sad. When you think he can’t see you.’ _

Sherlock almost laughs (almost) whenever he remembers the lengths he went to to  _ hide _ himself from John. Then, when John forced Sherlock to eat, and hid his cigarettes, and still slept in the upstairs bedroom. When Sherlock had to  _ worry _ about John seeing him. 

Now, after his ‘death’ and John’s wedding and then his death and then… well, everything else, Sherlock doesn’t have to worry. He knows what he looks like, recognises the concern in the eyes of every member of the Yard. He knows he looks sad, even when John can see him. And that is exactly the problem. John  _ can _ see (he could) but he doesn’t (chooses not to; doesn’t care enough to look). 

And he doesn’t blame John. He had his chance. And he missed it. He will  _ always _ miss it.

~

Sherlock is struck, sometimes, with the urge to touch John while he sleeps. 

He holds the memory of John’s forehead against his chest, the touch of his hair (slightly rough at the ends: in need of a trim, and crispy in the middle: Sherlock has bottles in the shower that would fix that)  against his cheek, the helpless, hopeful feeling of John’s warmth against him. John has always brought out a softer side of Sherlock, provided the security he needed to open himself up, but in that moment, with his best friend (his only  _ true _ friend) muffling sobs and wet, open mouthed gasps into his chest, Sherlock felt the uncontrollable urge to hold on and never let go. Nothing should ever hurt John Watson. Nothing. Not even… Not even Sherlock. 

It is painful to recall, to remember the hope that had sprung unbidden into his mind, to acknowledge that he really is just as naive as everybody else. But it is all Sherlock has. John has made that clear. With his words and then… well. He was a soldier. Sherlock has always had an uncanny ability to bring out his bad days.

Even so, when John is lying on the couch, limbs akimbo and jaw loose with half-formed snores, Sherlock wants to touch. To rest the tips of his fingers against the stubble (the hallmark of the father John has become) (without Sherlock), to satisfy an ache deep in his gut that tells him that just one touch from John (one soft gesture, one kind word, even a glance that didn’t contain any trace of malice or regret) (anything) would tide him over. All he has now are the cigarettes and the Work. His body, that he was once naive enough to think of as  _ just transport _ , feels untethered and restless. A touch could fix that. He knows. 

But he also knows that John would not want that. John does not want to touch Sherlock, not like that, not… Sherlock does not deserve John’s touch. Not even in anger. So he tucks the blanket under John’s chin and tells himself that it is Enough. 

~

He is in the kitchen, hands cupped around a mug of cold coffee, when John wakes up. Sherlock registers the sudden silence that fills the flat and sets the coffee aside. He has never been around when John has woken before, has always identified the signs of a man preparing to return to consciousness, and found something pressing to do elsewhere. Usually his bedroom, sometimes (on particularly difficult days) as far from Baker Street as he can get. He has never pretended to be a brave man. 

“Sh’lock?” 

His heart (traitorous) clenches in his chest. It has been so long (years and years) since he’s heard John’s voice so unguarded. “Mmn.”

“D’you…” Sherlock can hear the frown in John’s voice, but refuses to leave the kitchen. A safe space, hidden from John’s disapproval. Sherlock hates that John can make him feel so wrong-footed in his own home. But then, 221B hasn’t felt like home in a long time. “How long’ve you been here?”

How long  _ has _ he been here? Long enough for the kettle to boil and the coffee on the table to have gone cold a long time ago. He glances across at the window, the pale light cast by streetlights and…

“Few hours.” He hears John’s breath leave him in a single exhale that isn’t quite a sigh, but might as well be. He stands. “I’ll just…” He’s in the sitting room now, staring at the back of John’s head, the hair twisted awkwardly from where it had been buried in the sofa cushions. John looks over his shoulder and Sherlock cuts his eyes away. He gestures at the door.  _ Leave.  _ So clearly what John wants; whatever John’s reasons for seeking out the flat, he doesn’t come for Sherlock’s  _ company _ .

Shockingly, John stands up. “Please.” 

_ What? _ Sherlock has no idea what to make of this, has no data, nothing to point him in the right direction, nothing to explain John’s plea. Please what? Is John telling him to leave? Surely he knows that Sherlock would do anything. He needn’t ask.

He is too tired to shield his emotions, knows that his face is giving away everything, that John can read his desperation like a book. “Please,” John repeats. “Don’t.”

And if John can read his sadness, surely he can see that Sherlock is  _ desperately _ confused. 

“She was right.” There is only one person John can be talking about, only one person who ensured Sherlock would never, ever be whole again. His heart aches ( _ desperately _ ).

“It doesn’t matter…”  _ ‘...who you are.’ _ Unspeakably cruel and, in some small way, impossibly kind. Despite how much it had hurt to stare at John, thinking (stupid) that perhaps the next words would be  _ good _ , would be some variation of the deepest, most sincere hopes of Sherlock’s heart… Despite the pain that had come, irrepressible and uninvited, at hearing everything he had ever worked for come crashing down at his feet, it was better to have heard it from Mary than John. 

If she hadn’t said it, hadn’t pointed out the fruitlessness of Sherlock’s hope, John would have. And Sherlock knows he wouldn’t have had the luxury of distance. He would have had to look at the pity and the disgust and the  _ shame _ in John’s eyes while he touched his skin and clutched at every remaining thread of  _ what they used to be _ . 

So it matters, it matters a lot, and it hurts in a way Sherlock had never thought to be prepared for, but it is a blessing compared to the thought of the same words (or, heaven forbid,  _ different _ words) being said in the same voice that shaped  _ ‘best friend’ _ and  _ ‘I owe you so much’ _ . 

“Yes it does.” That voice, hard and decisive; a warning for Sherlock to stand quietly and not argue. Even if he had wanted to, Sherlock doesn’t have any argument left in him. “It matters. A lot, actually.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, ready (willing) to bear the force of John’s anger, the furious spitfire of his speech and the unrepentant flare of his fists. But they never come. Slowly, he opens his eyes, unclenches his muscles and sees that John’s eyes are filled with tears, his face puckered in a grimace that physically  _ hurts _ to look at. Sherlock has done this…

“Sorry.” That’s what people are supposed to say, they are supposed to beg forgiveness and if it is not granted, they are to repent and to demonstrate the depths of their apology until it is accepted. Sherlock has not earned John’s forgiveness yet. He is not sure if he ever will.

“You don’t--  _ Jesus _ , Sherlock, you have  _ nothing _ to be sorry for.” 

He doesn’t  _ understand _ , nothing adds up, he feels wrongwrong _ wrong _ and he’s not sure where he stepped off the path but he’s missed  _ something _ . “I… yes?” And this is  _ infuriating _ . Why can’t he just speak?! Sherlock Holmes, reduced to stuttered half-sentences. 

John’s sorrow, bone deep and crushing, seems to spread. “ _ I _ am the one who should be sorry, Sherlock - I  _ am _ sorry. Christ, I’m so, so sorry. I should have… Shit, I’ve been coming here for weeks, to tell you and- and I’ve backed out every single time. But.” He shakes his head, sets his jaw. Sherlock blinks. He is still so confused. “But not this time. I’m going to… I’m going to tell you and then you can… can do what you like. With me.” 

It almost sounds as if… No. John chose Mary, and Sherlock has done nothing to deserve him. It can’t be. Hope is… Sherlock has given up hoping. 

“She was right. She does know what we’re meant to be. And that… that isn’t just the cases, Sherlock, I swear to you. I… I have- uh, I’ve wanted to do this for ages. Years. Uhm… and then you di-  _ went away _ ,”  _ Will Sherlock  _ ever _ be able to apologise enough for that? _ “Which isn’t… I’m not blaming you. I’ve stopped… blaming you. I… What I’m trying to say, Sherlock is…” John visibly steels himself (long, deep breath; harsh swallow; clenched jaw. He looks like a solider). “I love you.”

Sherlock is frozen. He blinks, knows it’s a tell of his, knows John will be able to read how affected he is, but… His stomach is turning itself inside out and he has a startling urge to ask if John would perhaps like a cup of tea. 

“I love you.” John, hushed and impossibly gentle. As if Sherlock hadn’t heard him the first time. He has been silent for too long.

“I--” His soft palate is making an admirable attempt at velcroing itself to his tongue. He makes an appalling gulping noise. “You--” Good  _ god _ , he is beyond hope. Small children can do something as impossibly simple as forming words. “I’m… me?” 

The smile on John’s face is small and tender, and not at all mocking. “You. You’re the one. That I love, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

John shakes his head, his face falling ever so slightly and no! He should never look sad, Sherlock is  _ done _ with making John sad. He had promised himself a long time ago that John would never be sad because of him. Look at the job he’d done of that. And here is he is doing it again.

“Because,” a long, gusty sigh. “You are everything that I want and I’m through with pretending otherwise, you beautiful, ridiculous man.”

_ Oh _ . Sherlock can’t help the sigh that escapes him, but before he can clamp his hands over his mouth and beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom, John is slipping soft, slightly damp palms into Sherlock’s and squeezing. 

“Beautiful,” he repeats. “I’ve thought that since the very first time we met.  _ The very first time _ . So brilliant and so beautiful.” Tender knuckles brush over Sherlock’s cheekbone and he sucks in a tiny breath. This is the stuff of his most desperate daydreams. John is touching him like he’s something worthy and precious. It’s breaking his heart. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I… What is this?”

The cheek-stroking stops and Sherlock wants to stuff the words back into his mouth -  _ why hasn’t someone invented that yet?  _ \- until John’s other hand comes up to cup the back of his head so, so gently. 

“It can be whatever you like. As much, or as little as you want.” Sherlock feels himself frowning (that is not a helpful answer. It tells him nothing about what  _ John  _ wants, there is no  _ data _ to stop him from making a fool of himself). John, bless him, already knows this. “Just, for the record, I want… everything you’re willing to give.”

“Kissing?” It’s out of his mouth before he even has a chance to register that he’s thought it. Sherlock doesn’t have to worry for long, though, because John is using his free hand to tip Sherlock’s chin down and is leaning forward and is… Oh. 

His mouth is wet, wet, warm. Wet and warm and, yes Sherlock can feel the rough patch where John’s lower lip had stuck to his teeth during the night. The sounds he’s making should be embarrassing, but John is matching him whimper for whimper, moan for moan. Sherlock pulls back as John’s tongue makes an enterprising trek inside his mouth. 

“I love you, too.” 

John grins at him and strokes gentle fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Good.” 

  
  
  



End file.
